My Body is a Cage
by EastCanada
Summary: Sherlock has always thought of his body as nothing but transport. But when he is diagnosed with a deadly and ultimately fatal, muscle neuron disease. It becomes a cage as well. Johnlock brotherly, may get closer as time goes on.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1- April 2012

Sherlock was at his microscope when It first happened, It was a day that would reply in Sherlock's and John's minds for as long as they lived. Sherlock had been adjusting the slide on his microscope, he was analyzing the effects of honey and cyanide on dog dander.

When suddenly his left arm went numb, it had been happening gradually throughout the day but it went completely numb at that exact moment and it began to twitch in a frenzy. Sherlock, in his shock, dropped a test tube he had been holding in the hand of the effected arm. The strong glass shattered when it hit the kitchen tile and Sherlock barely noticed it.

John ran in moments later, at hearing the sound of the glass break. He found Sherlock on his knees clutching his left arm, that was twitching quite oddly. He was sitting in a pile of broken glass. Many explanations raced through John's mind when he saw his friend's condition. Localized seizures, muscle weakness, spasms, to name a few. John was Sherlock's side in an instant.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

John hissed, the worry adding an edge to his voice. It was as if John's voice had awakened him from his stunned state as Sherlock blinked and stood up.

"Yes, John. I'm quite alright."

He whispered, sounding slightly dazed and John wasn't convinced. He raised an eyebrow slightly and touched Sherlock's forehead, as if testing for a fever. Then his brow furrowed as he found none.

"Your sure?"

He asked and Sherlock nodded, as he left the room. Leaving John staring after him, still very much concerned. But eventually John let it slip his mind and he brushed it off as nothing.

2 weeks later

It was two weeks later before something similar happened again. Sherlock and John had been at a crime scene with Lestrade and his crew, Sherlock had finished telling Lestrade everything about the crime that had been just committed. (She was killed by her son who was still bitter over the divorce with his father, obviously.)

He pulled out his phone and began to type, John looked confused at this. He watched Sherlock's usually limber, precise long fingers, slip and slide over the keys like he was just a toddler, struggling to walk.

Lestrade noticed this as well and he chose not to comment on it. But John wasn't Lestrade.

"Sher? Are you alright?"

He asked, gently resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock shrugged the hand off his shoulder, and tossed the phone at John in frustration. He stormed out of the room, pushing past John and Lestrade. Bounding down the stairs as he usually did and out the door, ignoring Anderson and Sally who just stared after him, confused.

John hurriedly followed after his flatmate and friend. He found Sherlock outside hailing a taxi, John sprinted over to him to narrowly jump into the cab after his friend. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge his presence, just stared out the window sullenly. John decided to act then.

"Sherlock? What was that about? And you better tell me."

John asked, turning Sherlock's shoulders to meet him in the eyes. Sherlock just stared at him defiantly, saying nothing as John sighed once again. Letting Sherlock go as the taxi drove towards Baker Street.

3 days later

Sherlock sat quietly on the doctor's examination table, hands on his lap as the doctor came in. Sherlock had snuck away from the flat while John was at A and E and went to St. Bart's hospital to finally find out why his transport was betraying him. The doctor was a stout man of older age with graying hair and a kind grandfatherly look to him. But the man wasn't smiling now as he looked at Sherlock, sadly.

"Mr. Holmes, we've gotten your test results in. You have what's known as ALS or Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis."

The older man sighed resignedly, looking at his chart. Sherlock leaned forwards on the table.

"Well what does that mean?!"

He snapped, angry at not knowing and having to ask for help. The doctor's voice went monotone as he answered Sherlock.

"It means your brain will stop sending signals to certain muscles at a time, without being used the muscles will weaken and die."

The doctor said flatly and Sherlock frowned in shock.

"So your saying soon, I won't be able to move, then I won't be able to breathe properly, then I won't be able to breathe at all?"

He whispered, softly as the doctor nodded, resting a hand on Sherlock's knee.

"How long?"

Sherlock hissed, gripping the table edges so hard that his knuckles turned white.

"It's gradual, so two or three years at most."

The doctor sighed and he looked at Sherlock with sympathy.

"Look young man, it's not that ba-"

"The brain! Will any harm come to the brain?!"

Sherlock interrupted instantly, frantically. And the doctor looked at him with the upmost seriousness in his lined eyes and Sherlock could see why this man had become a doctor.

"The brain remains untouched."


	2. Chapter 2- April 2012 continued

Chapter 2- April 2012 continued

Sherlock walked out of the hospital in a daze, a nurse asked if he wanted to call someone but he just ignored and waved her off. She let him walk through the door and into the pouring rain. For some reason, something he would ponder deeply for months later, he didn't hail a taxi even though there were many passing by.

Sherlock just trudged along through the rain, thinking over the rest of what the Dr. Had told him. In most illnesses his youth would be a blessing but apparently in ALS, it's a curse. It means the process will be quicker and even more brutal. Sherlock shook his head and pressed the diagnosis to the back of his mind, but it just wouldn't stay gone, it would in enlarge and be in the front of his mind again, within the instant.

He hissed in annoyance and didn't bother to try and delete it again. While he was thinking, he had stopped on the street corner. Suddenly a man shoved into him as he hurried down the street. Calling out a "Sorry mate!" Over his shoulder as he turned the corner.

Sherlock landed hard in the water filled gutter and yelped as cold water flushed against his clothed skin. He grunted in irritation and made a move to get up when he found with horror, that he couldn't get up. He flailed his arms and legs helplessly. He still couldn't get up! Sherlock let out a cry, as he knew then, it was true.

Then there were hands helping up from the gutters, grabbing his around the chest and lifting him up with the strength of a military man...a military man. Sherlock squinted through the water in his eyes and saw John had been the one to help him. Sherlock frowned and pushed John away, standing on his own two legs and walking straight to their flat, only a half a block away. He bounded up the steps and was inside 221B Baker's street within an instant, John followed as he marched up the stairs, to his room and slammed the door, hard.

John sighed and went to get some wam food and clothes. Once he was changed and had eaten, he brought some up to Sherlock's room and knocked on the door.

"Sherlock, come out! We have to talk!"

He bellowed, rapping his knuckles against the door again. Sherlock, to his surprise, opened the door and ushered John inside. Sherlock then sat on his bed and looked at John, dead in the eyes.

"I have Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. It's an ultimately fatal muscle neuron disorder."

Sherlock stated, unblinkingly, as if he was giving a simple report on the weather or such, nothing relating to his health or impending death.

John let the box of Cho Mien slip from his hands and stared agape at Sherlock, his eyes wide with horror.

"Sher..."

-Letimeskippythingiemabobbergoeshere!-

That's how they spent the rest of the night, Sherlock sitting on the couch and John sitting on his chair, both trying to avoid talking about the elephant in the room, or the diagnosis. That's what they'd taken to calling it. 'The diagnosis.' John himself was thinking about what was going to happen to his friend, the slow deterioration of his muscles, an his ultimate death. John felt his heart grow heavy at the very thought.

He'd forgot his life before Sherlock Holmes, he just couldn't imagine a life without him in it. It was unnatural but true. Sherlock on the other hand was thinking about ways he could beat this, and a single person came to mind.

"Stephen Hawking."

Sherlock blurted out suddenly, startling John out of his thoughts instantly.

"What?"

John asked, still not following, and giving Sherlock a mix between a kicked puppy look and a confused expression. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Stephen Hawking, the cosmologist, obviously. He has ALS and has lived well into his 70's. "

Sherlock stated with a wave of his hand.

"But Stephen Hawking is practically a bloody vegetable, Sherlock!"

John bellowed, standing up and cursing as he punched the drywall. Sherlock's phone went off suddenly and he picked it up.

"I'm coming over.

I know about your diagnosis.

~MH"

Sherlock snapped his phone shut and looked at the door. Then at John.

"Mycroft knows, he's coming."

Sherlock shrugged and John nodded, plopping back down in his chair, still hardly absorbing the news. Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs then and came into the flat, smiling happily. Then frowned when she saw the grim look on John's face and the stubborn look on Sherlock's.

"What's the matter boys?"

She asked, walking into the kitchen and starting to clear off the table to make some tea.

"I appear to have been diagnosed with a Motor neuron disease that I will ultimately die from."

Sherlock stated, as if bored and a second later they could hear the sound of a cup shattering on the floor of the kitchen. John hurried over to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the middle of the mess, both hands over her mouth, and her eyes as wide as saucers, brimming with tears. John opened his mouth to say something, but within moments Mrs. Hudson had moved across the flat and thrown herself at Sherlock, hugging him tightly.

"Oh Sherlock!"

She wailed, crying into his waist as he looked at her with a mix of surprise, irritation, and sadness.

"I-It's alright Mrs. Hudson."

He stammered, kindly. As a frantic knocking was heard at the door and Mycroft let himself in. The man plodded up the stairs to find John looking lost, a teary Mrs. Hudson hugging Sherlock, and a Sherlock who looked slightly pained. Mycroft turned right on his heels and left. Seeing then that he was not needed.

That night, Mycroft would sit at his home table in the dark, sipping from a glass of wine. Trying to numb the pounding of worry and grief in his head, he rested his head in his hands. Then for the first time in years, since he was eight years old. Mycroft sobbed into his hands, his shoulders wracking with the effort.


End file.
